


ROOK

by KJGooding



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Autistic Julian Bashir, Best Friends, Coping, Ezri gets to be a Counselor, Gen, Julian Has Two Hands, Loss of Identity, Medication, Trans Julian Bashir, conversion therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29066265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJGooding/pseuds/KJGooding
Summary: Section 31 would not have any interest in Doctor Bashir if he were 'an ordinary man' - a distinction he finds distasteful for several reasons.  But when they start pushing for him to join their organization, he accepts a radical course of experimental medications in order to keep his friends and patients safe from Section 31's advances.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

It was a quiet day for Doctor Bashir, but no less rewarding. Any day he was not required to bring full complements of Federation soldiers back from the brink of death was a good one, as the station began to feel safer and more like home again. Obviously, the sight of blood did not bother him, but in the context of today’s routine procedure, he caught himself joyfully humming as he extracted it, filtered it, and recycled it through a series of hyposprays. 

Renal failure was simply not an option. He provided a particular method of hypodialysis for his nonhuman patient which, in fact, led to improved kidney function from baseline, when administered once a week. It was always the highlight of his scheduled appointments, even if his patient did not marvel at it in the exact same way Bashir did. There was no reason for the patient to worry about all the minute details, when he could just consider it a reprieve from a lifelong struggle. Similarly, Bashir considered it a break from the War, but he did not voice this, out of a fear of coming across as callous. The illness itself was an unending war for the ensign who endured it, and a number of other challenges, and it was not Bashir’s place to speak. The best he could do for his patient was provide comfort and confidentiality, and listen politely to the lived experience he did not share. 

There was no need, either, for him to be so hands-on in his care, but he always enjoyed doting on his patients and playing with all of the intricate devices. Adjusting the filtration intensity on one hypospray and watching the blood trickle through, newly purified, made him unreasonably giddy. He then aligned the purified sample over his patient’s arm and released it back into the waiting vein underneath. His greatest achievements were little things like this, anonymously done to make lives better. 

He relished the hissing sound and change in tactile suction against his hand, as he slowly released the contents of the hypo. When it was finished, he rubbed a soothing balm into the ensign’s skin, then helped him back into his uniform jacket, dismissing him to return to duty or to relax in his quarters - the choice was left up to his own intuition about his health. 

“And I’ll see you next week,” Bashir said, in cordial closing. 

With the ensign gone, he set to putting away all of his gadgets, delighting in running his fingers over every smooth surface. It was a task usually reserved for a technician, or to a nurse if one was having a particularly slow shift and wanted to feel useful, but Bashir insisted on completing it himself. He broke the set of complementary hypos down to their base components, sterilizing each piece with a handheld UV device, before rolling them up into a kit marked especially for the ensign, and tucking it away into a locker in his private office. 

He did not intend to stay in the office for any longer than it took to deposit the kit; there was no need for urgent dictation on a routine visit, and he was due for his weekly lunch with Garak. ‘Weekly’ had become an overly optimistic appraisal, too. More often, their presence was demanded elsewhere, and plans were cut short and modified or cancelled altogether, until Bashir was not sure what day they were supposed to meet in the first place. But he knew it was _today_. 

When he sat down at his desk, sliding open a drawer underneath it to store his favored PADD for the afternoon, he heard the unmistakable, out-of-tune marimba chime of a call being blocked. 

The only coordinates he knew, for certain, to have blocked, were those from his parents’ residences on Earth. He could not think of any reason for his mother to call him, short of an emergency, and it would not be his father’s doing. His father was still serving his prison sentence, for a few more months anyway. 

Upon closer inspection - having consulted with his PADD on the exact frequency - it appeared the caller had chosen to block their identity. Bashir rolled his eyes. 

Mercifully, the dissonant signal was interrupted by a more pleasant one - the sound of an incoming video communique, from the computer terminal in Garak’s shop. Bashir directed it to his office computer, with its expansive screen situated slightly above eye level, filling the room. 

“Hullo, Garak,” Bashir beamed at the screen as it lit up

“Good afternoon, Doctor,” Garak replied, in a tone measured and cut as carefully as his custom suit commissions. “I’m afraid I will not be able to make our appointment today, after all. I thought the issue on Cardassia could wait, I’m sure you understand… perhaps tomorrow?”

Bashir sighed. 

“What’s tomorrow, Tuesday? I have three morning appointments… then I was due to see Ezri in the evening, for a mutual patient of ours... Yes, why not,” he said, unwilling to lose another week of Garak’s company. “I’ll find the time. How would 1430 work for you?”

“Perfectly,” Garak said, in a low, sly voice. “I will see you then, Doctor. Goodbye.”

“Be safe,” Bashir rushed to say, as Garak terminated the call. 

***

After having his late lunch in solitude, he stopped back by the Infirmary to finish out his shift. No one called for him in Ops, and no War casualties required his attention, so he was still able to call it a good day. The only unscheduled patient he saw that day was a visiting lieutenant from a docked ship, who had an allergic reaction to an unfamiliar component in the replimat’s food database. With their raw throat and stinging cheeks mended, he sent them back to the _Cinnae_ with instructions to follow up with their own CMO, and a breakdown on the replicator compounds their body did not agree with, to avoid in future. Only a few years ago, Bashir would have considered days like this insufferably dull, but not any longer. 

He returned to his quarters around 2100, hoping to have a quiet dinner and an early night for rest. His routine did not change much, in substance. Only the times varied, depending on when and where he was needed for emergencies. But once he was in his cabin, he ordered from a limited menu of time-tested, comforting favorites, then took a shower, then went to bed with a PADD in hand and a study on his mind. He had to gnaw on all sorts of things until he felt truly exhausted, and able to sleep undisturbed. Even the usual doctor’s disregard for traditional sleep patterns was not sufficient to reason with his body. He simply did not _need_ as much sleep, and alternating between day and night shifts, or working multiple consecutive ones at the War’s height, was not always enough. He had to chew forever on his foods, batter the germs off of his body with specialized sonics, and mull over a great scientific quandary before his brain and body would agree to settle down for the night. But if this was the only curse that underscored the blessing of his mind and great capacity to care, so be it. He did not mind sacrificing a few hours a night.

After he had finally managed to fall asleep, with the PADD he was studying on the morphogenic virus situated against his shoulder, screen still on, he got another message from the same blocked caller. 

It came through his PADD and household computer at the same time, and he groaned as he rolled over and shoved the PADD into a drawer.

“Computer, why are you conveying a blocked call?” he grumbled, staring at the ceiling and yawning into the crook of his arm. 

“The message is marked ‘urgent,’” the computer replied. 

“Fine. Who is it from?”

“Unknown.”

“I see. Please mute all future notifications from the same coordinates. If there’s a real emergency, kindly tell them to call from somewhere else.”

“Original coordinates muted. Your response, transmitted.” 

“Thank you. And _goodnight._ ”

“Goodnight, Doctor Bashir.”

At the unintentional command, the Computer dimmed the lights even further, and tipped the climate control in a warmer direction. With the pleasant hum of the heating panel in the floor just beside his bed - installed by the Cardassians, who knew their way around a good heater - Bashir was able to fall asleep again. 

***

Between appointments the following day, Bashir tended to several unscheduled patients, but he remained optimistic about his chances to meet Garak on time. He was sitting in his office, glancing up at the large display screen, and addressing a microphone installed inside it for dictation. The program had no trouble taking down every word, even as he spoke rapidly, barely stopping to think or breathe. 

“Patient was treated for a laceration of the non-dominant left hand, running diagonally across the palm from thumb to third digit - the result of a mistimed depressurization routine in Ops where the patient was conducting routine repairs. The sudden change in pressure caused the damaged data-rod-bay to rupture against the patient’s hand - they had been holding the bay in place until that point. Six autosutures were administered along the skin tear, in conjunction with tetanus toxoid and a course of topical analgesics and hypospray-antibiotics. Patient will follow up with--”

The marimba chime assaulted him again. Although, this time, it originated from different coordinates. Clearly his caller had gotten the automated reply Bashir sent, and still thought it necessary to call him. Curious, then, for their location to still be masked. 

This time, the incessant chime was followed by an indistinct voice, garbled and cycled through a series of channels, sounding masculine and feminine and purely robotic all at once. Bashir could not identify the speaker in particular, but he was certain this was not his mother. This was Section 31. 

“Did you ever wonder,” the voice posited, “why your father’s sentence was so swiftly agreed to? Why it was so short?”

Bashir watched the screen as his dictation program timed out from inactivity. He was furious, now. They could bother him, sure, but he found it inexcusable for them to interfere with patient care. Anyway, he thought bitterly, his father’s sentence could have been a hundred years longer and he would not have lost any sleep over it. 

“ _No_ ,” Bashir said back.

“Because,” the voice was cryptic, “we had plans for you. We had plans for an entire elite force, built around you.”

Bashir grumbled and ended the call manually, drilling his fingernail into a button on the tabletop. This was a distasteful game, but he knew how to play it. If they wanted to interrupt him at work, he saw no reason to respect the organization’s privacy, in return. 

“Computer, place a call to the Starfleet Legal Advisory Board, please. If they ask for a case number, I believe it’s FSC140681.”

The computer complied with his request, supplying the dormant case’s identifier, giving whoever answered an idea of what the call would be about. 

A Vulcan attendant in a red Starfleet uniform took over the video portion of Bashir’s workstation, burying his dictation program for good. He adjusted his posture so he could meet her gaze. He did not know exactly what to say, but he knew he needed to look convincing while saying it.

“Commander,” he began, “I’m Doctor Julian Bashir, Deep Space Nine. I am receiving threats from a certain… clandestine section of Starfleet Intelligence… in regards to this case.”

“This case was settled via private hearing, Doctor,” the commander replied. “I assure you, no one from that committee would have any cause for contacting you after the summary judgement, which was two years ago. This would lead me to presume your caller does not abide by our law, and is therefore not a Federation citizen, let alone a member of Starfleet. But if you would like to lodge a complaint, we can open a new case--”

“They _most definitely are_ a member of Starfleet,” Bashir said, through gritted teeth. 

Dutifully, the Commander was already typing away on a second PADD, beginning the outline for a new inquiry. Bashir rolled his eyes, ready to surrender to the corrupt, all-encompassing freedom Section 31 had in matters of Starfleet Law. Surely this officer was aware of them, and only launching an investigation to humor him. It did not matter. He considered ending the call, but then something changed in the Vulcan’s stoic expression. Her lip began to curl ever so faintly, hinting at what he hoped was disgust. 

“It would seem,” she said, tone unwavering, “there are several options you can take, Doctor, in putting an end to this unwanted attention.”

“Harassment,” he corrected. “All Section 31 does is harass, and manipulate, and keep me from _doing my job_. I’m the Chief Medical Officer, and there’s a _war on_ , in case they haven’t noticed!”

“They,” she said, nodding subtly to indicate his guess was correct, “would recommend you accept their offer, in order to bring that war to a swift conclusion.”

“No,” he reveled, for once, in feeling like a petulant child. He should not need any grand reason to be _left alone_. 

“Very well. Then there are two remaining options, which would diminish their interest in your particular talents. You may take steps to reverse the procedures done to you in your childhood and adolescence, or you may have a psychologist certify those procedures as medically necessary and therefore appropriate for public record.”

“This is blackmail.”

Through the Vulcan’s PADD, the same disguised voice crackled over the speaker and then rang in his ears, long after the words were said:

“No, Doctor. This is chess.”

***

He had to dash across the Promenade to meet Garak; he would not be on time, but he wanted to at least remain in the category of ‘excusably late.’ 

“Garak!” he called out, spotting him toward the back of the mostly-empty Replimat. “I’m sorry!”

Garak was well-versed in looking unaffected, and simply glanced up from the story he was reading, while the doctor went on making a spectacle of himself. Behind the PADD was a tray of cold food, and then a packet of utensils - still wrapped - and then the clean napkin tied into a ruff at Garak’s neck. It did not appear he had eaten anything in Bashir’s absence. 

“Good afternoon, Doctor,” Garak spoke quietly, as Bashir took his seat. “I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten about me, after all.”

“No, no, of course not,” Bashir mumbled, sitting down and shoving his fingerprint into the signalling device on the table, which would give him clearance to place his order when he stood up again. “I’m sorry, I had an emergent patient and then I needed to catch up on charting. They warned me in medical school, half the time with the patient, double the time with the computer…”

With this observation left hanging in the air, he stumbled off to the replicator unit and requested his lunch. He had not put any thought into what he wanted to eat, which caused him to come back to the table with a tray of four mismatched courses with ingredients from at least twenty planets. Replicators across the station could respond to a numerical menu the doctor favored; if he had needed to list off every particular substitution and cooking method, it would have taken ages for him to get his order. 

He set down the tray and took his seat again, reaching for the provided napkin and laying it out on his lap, rather than around his neck as Garak favored. _Bashir Dinner Programs #10, #40, #62, and #63_ all released aromatic wisps of steam as Bashir removed their chafing covers one by one. Garak felt transported to each of these exotic places, courtesy of the scenting organ in the back of his throat; it was far preferable to using a transporter beam. There was a steamed Andorian pudding, a dish of Bajoran sticky dumplings in a Cardassian fish-based broth, a tagine of _gagh_ on a bed of Vulcan grains and vegetables, and a large platter of sandwiches made with soft bread, cubed meat, and a fermented paste Garak did not recognize. 

“I take it you worked right through breakfast,” Garak observed. 

“I had a persimmon and some coffee,” Bashir replied. Why did everything have to be an argument? Couldn’t he have just lied and said _yes, Garak, I did, you’re looking well today_?

“No need to stall on my account,” Garak added, gesturing to his own tray. “I’ve had almost this _entire_ pot of tea. Help yourself to the rest, Doctor, please. I’m simply _delighted_ to have company, at last.”

“Thank you.”

Garak tipped his head to the side, just slightly.

“You’re unhappy,” Garak decided, from this momentary calculation. “May I ask what’s troubling you?”

For all his quirks and unsavory past persuasions, Garak was certainly capable of satisfying Bashir’s expectations of a friend. Bashir had already shoveled a roughly cut half-of-a-dumpling into his mouth, and he rushed to swallow it so he could answer. He cleared his throat and had a sip of the cold tea Garak had offered. 

“Yes, you might as well know,” Bashir said, intent on keeping his voice kind, even over such scratchy words. “Section 31 has been harassing me, insistent on taking my attention away from my patients and bashing me over the head with the fact I’m _unnatural_.”

“That _is_ troubling,” Garak splayed his fingers over his chest, in surprise. 

“Well, they’re only interested in enrolling me _because of_ my augmentation.”

“Of course they are, Doctor. Even as a spy, in the depths of secrecy, one must _stand out_ … garner attention, earn praise. I know it all too well.”

“I’d prefer the Federation’s attention,” Bashir shrugged. “But no, it isn’t as though they’re going to give me a promotion or an award or even a pat on the back for all the hard work I _am_ doing to limit our casualties on the frontlines.”

Garak took a dainty bite of the tulaberry roulade left on his plate. 

“Perhaps they are not allowed to,” he observed. “This organization - Section 31 - seems to operate on a larger scale than one would expect at first glance. Would they have something to gain by keeping you from the Federation accolades you’ve grown so accustomed to?”

“You mean they’re backing me into a corner?”

Bashir returned his attention to the cooling dumplings, rushing to eat the rest of them before they were unpalatable. He was particular about the temperatures of his foods, and found even the tea disagreeable; he was only drinking it because Garak saved it especially for him and he did not want to be rude. 

“The Federation certainly doesn’t want to draw attention to me,” Bashir went on. “Having an illegally augmented officer just makes them look bad, for failing to enforce their own rules.”

“I take it Section 31 does not operate by the same rules, then,” Garak said, eyes glinting. “And they would allow you more freedom in using the talents bestowed upon you?”

Bashir was alarmed by the word - it was the same description the anonymous recruiter had used.

“You want me to join them?” Bashir was incredulous. 

“Mercies, no,” Garak said, flashing his palm in ready dismissal. “You are not cut from that cloth, Doctor. You were not patterned to become an undercover operative. You _care_ too much about others.”

Bashir had moved on to rushing through the tray of sandwiches, and paused with his second slice in his hand, crust brushing his lower lip. 

“I like to think so, yes,” Bashir admitted. 

He mulled over the soggy bread in his mouth, trying to keep it politely closed while he chewed and spoke simultaneously. 

“I need to stop worrying about myself, then, don’t I?” Bashir realized. “If I just do what they told me, they’ll leave me alone.”

“Don’t make my mistake, Doctor,” Garak pleaded, suddenly setting his palm over Bashir’s idle hand on the table. “People like that do not _negotiate_. Your mind does not belong to them, no matter what has been done to it.”

“That’s right,” Bashir said, swigging the tea and making a similarly cold and miserable observation, “it belongs to me.”

“And do you know what else, Doctor?” lilted Garak, “it is _exemplary_.”

Bashir cleared his throat and deflected the compliment. Concerned about being late to see Dax, too, he got up from his chair and paused alongside Garak’s, as he turned to leave the Replimat. He patted Garak’s back several times, slow and friendly. 

“That was, er,” he mumbled, “nice of you to say, Garak. Thank you.”

He hated to break the contact, once initiated, but he was due on the other side of the lower level. With a nod, admitting to himself the affection had reached its term, he tucked his PADD under his arm and set off on his walk. 

At one point, the PADD vibrated, signalling a private message. Oh, they were insatiable. 

_We have some files you may like to see, Doctor, which might help speed your decision. We will need your answer quickly - there is so much at stake with the Changelings, now, and we would be grateful for your help._

Scoffing, he deleted it and continued on his way.


	2. Chapter 2

“You must buy a lot of new clothes,” Dax teased.

Bashir was seated across from her, at the expansive desk in her private office, and he was staring at the floor.

“I think it’s kind of cute, actually,” Dax went on, trying to land the joke again, “how your appointments with me are always  _ right after  _ your appointments with Garak.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Bashir said, reflexively. 

“You’re not. Um, late, I mean. This should only take a few minutes, anyway.”

She fanned a collection of four PADDs out across the tabletop, for both of them to study. This was a typical meeting for them, wherein they worked out dosages of medications for their mutual patients. Each time a compound Dax prescribed needed adjusting, she was always insistent on meeting with Bashir and making sure there would not be any unpleasant drug interactions or side effects. Joining with Dax had, of course, accelerated her credentials, but she still did not  _ feel  _ like a fully licensed psychologist, so she relied on Bashir’s medical expertise to complement this. 

He glanced at the lists for less than a minute before tapping on specific line items to delete them. 

“See, that’s what you’re here for,” Dax said, gratefully. “Thanks, Julian. I’ll see you next week.”

She reached between them to gather the PADDs and rewrite her prescriptions, only to be disrupted by Bashir putting both of his hands on the table. Evidently, he was nervous, and she nodded down at him, encouraging him to take whatever time he needed. 

“Actually… if you wouldn’t mind, I had a few questions for you,” he said. 

“Okay, sure.” She touched one nervous palm to her forehead, “as long as they aren’t  _ just _ about medicine.”

“Well, kind of,” he admitted. 

He went on to explain how Section 31 had been repeatedly contacting him over the previous several days, hoping to solicit his skills for themselves, or else to take away the one thing - Bashir mused at this, bitterly - that made him  _ stand out _ . 

“First of all,” Dax said, the moment he was done, “I think of you as gentle and compassionate before I think of you as an augment. I don’t care what your parents did to you, they don’t get to take credit for that compassion.”

“No one’s taking credit for anything,” Bashir sighed. “In order to be left alone to live my life as a  _ normal  _ person, Section 31 thinks I should either start reversing those procedures, or have you sign off on them as medically necessary.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Ezri, please. They won’t forget about this, and neither will I. It’s interfering with my work. I’m afraid of… how they might use me.”

He smoothed his hands over the table, letting the chilled metal invigorate him. Dax always kept her office cold. 

“As long as I exist, like this,” he resigned himself to the ploy, “I don’t know if anyone’s safe around me. I care about you, I care about Garak, I care about my patients--”

Dax sat down in the plush chair across from him and put her hands on the desk, too, so he would have something else to focus on. 

“I don’t like the sound of it,” she said, “but if you want my help, I’m there.”

***

The next time they called, at least Bashir felt prepared. 

As ever, he was seeing a patient, giving them his undivided attention and his most reassuringly tactile care. The chime came through discreetly on his comm badge; he had unblocked the caller’s coordinates, but still had no intention of tracking the call. They could do their work from anywhere, remotely. 

“The necessary files will be sent to your terminal at Ops, Doctor,” the disguised voice said. 

Bashir made no rush to go and retrieve them. He took his time whittling down his list of appointments for the day, speaking with great concern and affection into each of their charts, organizing his implements for the next and the next. The files could wait. 

When he finally did leave his post for Ops, it was well into Gamma shift, and his usual station was vacant. He found everything with ease - though it was well encrypted - and sent it directly to Dax’s office computer, for her to work on over the rest of the week. 

Regarding his two options, he was given his original medical records - prior to being falsified - passed on from his parents to Section 31; Bashir could only guess what they were exchanged for. A shortened sentence, indeed. It presented him with a fleeting moment of nostalgia, that they really had kept something from  _ before _ , some evidence of who their child was. But invasive scans of his brain were not on the same level as keeping his finger-paintings or macaroni art from school, not at all. For himself, he’d kept Kukulaka, as remade as the poor little fella was. 

The other file contained replicator instructions for a series of medications, if Bashir chose to reverse the procedures. He gave a cursory glance to the base components - many were common and familiar, while others were restricted substances. 

Both of these files went to Dax for her professional second opinion. Bashir went on staring at the screen even after the transfer was complete, letting the glow dull his senses until he felt strained and ready to go home for bed. 

***

The honor of Dax’s first unsupervised medical order went to another comprehensive scan of Bashir’s brain, for her to compare with those of his childhood. He had the procedure done after his shift and sent it immediately to the radiologist to read, with a copy made for him to bring to his standing appointment with Dax. 

He set the shimmering print down on the table, alongside the collection of others she had been studying and marking up. She preferred to do as much of her work as possible by hand, rather than on a screen with automated drawing functions; she was still getting the hang of her hands. 

“They might as well be identical, Julian,” she said, feeling victorious only until his face expressed defeat. “I think you’ve known that for a while, at least since medical school. You would’ve seen cases like this.”

“I’d never seen the records from my childhood. I don’t know where they got these, I thought they’d all been destroyed,” he admitted, sifting through the stack of them with the same macabre sense of reverence one might lend to polishing bones from a burial site. 

“I know you can’t sign off on it yourself, but I don’t think I can, either. I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

“Hmm,” he sighed, without any underlying intonation. 

“I don’t see any structural deficiencies in your brain, from when you were little,” she continued. “Your parents didn’t change the composition of  _ anything _ , they just sped things up. Correct me if I’m wrong, but…”

Cautiously, she reached for the particular print he was studying, indicating the highlighted cerebellum.  _ Jules Subatoi Bashir, female, human, aged 5 _ , it said, underneath. 

“I see an appropriate development of synapses and dendrites, for your age. In the next three years - during the procedures and afterward - all I notice is a change in their arrangement, and even that’s  _ very slight _ ,” she pinched two fingers together, in indication. “They reordered things so you could make connections more quickly, but I don’t see any evidence of that being  _ necessary _ . You still make those connections in your own way, like you always have. It’s what makes you such a good doctor.”

She smiled, but after he did not return it, her lips twisted into their customary pout.

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Bashir said. “I  _ couldn’t  _ make those connections correctly. I couldn’t tell colors or animals apart. I barely spoke at all, I couldn’t use the computer with my classmates…”

“You’re sure of that?”

He paused to consider it. Indeed, his memory of the events was foggy and likely altered. The only thing he was sure of was the disappointment his parents felt, at his lack of achievements.  _ Achievements _ ? He was  _ so young _ . An achievement, at that stage, should’ve just been an expression of love, something he could recall fondly… the first time they gave him a hug, or a kiss, or an encouraging word? He couldn’t resurface any moments like that, no matter how hard he tried.

“No,” he replied, after a while. “I suppose not. But I don’t think I was speaking appropriately, if at all.”

“So what?” Dax said firmly. “Being nonverbal isn’t an indicator of intelligence. Have you met a Ramatisian, or a Horta? And I know those aren’t  _ exactly  _ the same - but I’ve observed an equivalent to autism in almost every single race I studied in my psychology program. Your parents could’ve done about a hundred other things before deciding on what they did. They could’ve started seeing a family counselor, so they could learn better ways to interact with you and set boundaries, they could’ve enrolled you in a different school especially for kids on the spectrum so you wouldn’t feel you were being left behind… they could’ve done  _ anything _ , but no, they decided to put you through an invasive, illegal procedure when you were still a child, because you’re autistic and they didn’t want to get to know you.”

Bashir knew better than to bristle at the word, but he felt a sudden, queasy drop in his stomach. That was  _ all _ this was about? It was, as Dax suggested,  _ nothing _ , and he knew it. He had met and even helped diagnose quite a few other officers throughout his tenure in medical school and beyond. Perhaps as a feature of this very diagnosis, he could recall each of their names, faces, their mannerisms throughout the visit and after receiving the help they had been reaching out for. Nowhere in those memories could he place a solitary thought of forcing any of them into scrambling their brains until the patterns inside resembled those arbitrarily declared normal, centuries ago. No, he would never sign off on anything like that… 

“So, no,” Dax clarified, since he remained quiet, “I won’t be signing off on any of this as medically necessary. I’m tempted to redraft it and send it back to Starfleet Medical, in case Section 31 tries this on anyone else in the future. This is gross on  _ so  _ many levels.”

“I’d rather not get into more trouble,” Bashir said.

“Fine,” Dax said, deflating at the notion of  _ not  _ causing trouble for the first time in a few lifetimes. “What if… what if I sign off that they  _ were  _ necessary, even if I don’t believe it. Is that all they want? I can do  _ that _ . I can comm Counselor Telnorri for a second-second-opinion, and maybe that’ll be enough to get them off your back.”

“You don’t have to do that for me. The last thing I want is for you to lose your license.” He considered, for a moment, that she was committed to showing the same high regard for her patients as he held for his, and that pillar was the one he wanted to protect from Section 31 in the first place. “ _ You worked hard for that _ . Let me just take the prescriptions.”

His posture remained heavy with defeat; his head rested in both hands, with his elbows digging into the desk, lips and brows furrowed, voice softened by exhaustion. Dax did not feel this was a willing demonstration of consent, so she sighed at him. 

“I don’t think those are necessary either,” she insisted. 

“It’s one or the other, as far as they’re concerned. I’d resign, if I thought it would do me any good, but then I’d have even  _ less  _ protection, and there’s not much call for civilian doctors.”

“I think you’d find both, on Cardassia,” she grinned. “But I know what you mean, and I know you don’t want them experimenting on you or using you for anything weird, and it would be easier for them to do that without you being in Starfleet.”

“Exactly right.”

“I’m sorry they’re putting you through this,” she said, softly. “Promise you’ll come right back to me if you experience any side effects.”

“I will.”

As gentle as her gaze was, he still had no desire to meet it. He followed the sound of her footsteps as she padded around the room, ignoring the printouts in favor of a PADD from her allotment for writing prescriptions. She slid a stylus out from a compartment in her desk, grabbed the uppermost PADD, and signed off on the full list of medications sent by Section 31. Bashir glanced up in time to watch her left hand tremble around the pen, before she passed him the note to take back to the Infirmary. 

“We’re still on for physical therapy, on Monday?” he posed it more as a question, even though the appointment stood for months on both their calendars and recurred with great regularity. 

“Yeah, for sure. I’m looking forward to it.”

“I’ll see you then. Thank you,” he held the PADD up, using it to give her a salute as he left.

***

He requested the medications in liquid form, which allowed him to have them as an accompaniment to anything short of real alcohol. It was that or tablets, which he hated swallowing and hated even more when ground into powder. The recipe had not been condensed to a hypospray compound, yet, as it was one-of-a-kind, untested, and unsanctioned. Giving the particular string of ingredients to a replicator was risky enough. 

He was reluctant to read the entire list, but, as both patient and physician, he knew he should not trust himself, in theory, if he did not understand the interactions of everything he dispensed. So he scrolled through the alarmingly long list of sedatives, psychotropics, muscle relaxants, and hormones, taking each to heart. He knew there would be side effects, but he had no desire to go and see Dax about any of them. 

They came on gradually, and were not unpleasant, at first. He found himself better able to sleep, without running his mind into the ground first. It was easier to get comfortable in bed, without fussing over which set of complementary pajamas and blankets he used on any given night; he could just grab a set of each from the closet and not worry about how the textures would interact, scratching his skin or making noise as they rubbed against each other throughout the night. 

His meals went through a similar progression, and he found himself sampling foods he had been reluctant to try in his youth, due to the way they looked, or the way they felt in his mouth. 

But these small comforts quickly reversed themselves, as more of the medication settled into his system, undoing the subtle changes made to the synapses in his brain. He was afraid of reverting back to the unloved and misunderstood boy he once was, even though the alteration made to his brain was, physically, a tiny one. Neurotransmitters which had not interacted with each other in over twenty years suddenly came into contact, and he went from his established baseline into unfamiliar, startling solitude. 

He became self-conscious about talking to his friends, afraid he would say something that did not make any sense in context, even though his brain presented it to him as perfectly paired to the conversation. More often, he found himself waiting for added guidance or direction. 

In addition to feeling uncomfortable with the way his mind processed the emotionally-charged world around him, the hormones made him experience greater discomfort with his body. While the two realms had been altered years apart, and in vastly different ways and for vastly different reasons, they caused suffering in one broad stroke. In being reversed at the same time, their effects only served to compound one another, heightening and worsening and leaving him unable to express exactly what was wrong, and whether it had been triggered by a physical or emotional discomfort.

He didn’t mind a glimpse of his long lashes or softening jawline in the mirror, but then the impression of stubble sent him into a compulsive fit of repeatedly trimming it, recalibrating his razor for a closer and closer shave. In a way, he was not satisfied until his skin was red and chafed, as this proved he had done everything he could to it for the day. Then he would get into the sonic shower, delighting in the highest-pressure routine as it massaged his skin, kneading away the mounting tension, until he noticed with some disdain that he could no longer feel his hip bones. Perhaps it was unhealthy for them to protrude in the first place, but he had always been aware of them before, in accordance with a careful diet and regular exercise. As he bent to study them more meticulously, he became aware of a strange, tearing sensation in his chest. When he looked, he could see the decade-old scars there, pale-gray and glistening. The incisions had been made with the utmost precision, and healed to become virtually invisible; Bashir could not  _ see  _ them any more or less clearly, but he could  _ feel  _ them. He could feel his skin clinging to those trimmed, sewn-up edges, stretching on either side. It was faint, but the presence of any doubt at all that he would lose the body he had dreamed of, shoved him immediately to the brink of inconsolable tears. As if anyone else could see him and pass judgement, he turned on the shower’s water feature to help disguise his crying, sending stinging sensations along the rash on his cheeks and jaw.

With his senses already fairly well worn, he heard a chirp from his home computer terminal, calling out with a message for him. Defeat was most easily accepted en masse, like a line of tumbling dominoes. 

“What?” he shouted, not bothering to adjust the water or the sonic levels. 

“We merely wanted to check in on you, Doctor,” the disguised voice said. “How are you adjusting?”

“I’m not,” Bashir grumbled. “I’m in the shower. Don’t call me again.”

“We wouldn’t be interested in you if you were an ordinary man.  _ How are you adjusting? _ ”

“Forced gender reassignment is illegal on all one-hundred-and-forty-nine Federation planets.”

“Tell that to your parents,  _ Jules _ . I think you may just be the queen our board is missing.”

Bashir slammed his hand against the controls, shutting off both functions simultaneously. Even the compartment light went off with the end of the sonic rotation, but that did not matter. This was, mercifully, not a video call, and Bashir took the darkness as a salve for at least one of his threadbare senses. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples, in an act of self-soothing. 

“I did that _myself_ ,” Bashir’s voice cracked as he touched the most sensitive spots, just beside his ears. He dropped his hands to his sides, making fists as if gathering up what remained of his composure, squeezing it together just enough to continue. “It’s part of the reason I went to medical school. My parents had nothing to do with it… it was just another part of me they didn’t want to get to know, didn’t want to _deal with_. And I _will not_ have you speak to me like that. _I’m taking your bloody prescriptions,_ now leave me alone!”

The voice was solely masculine, this time, filters and static removed. It was composed, and it made Bashir feel inferior. 

“ _ Check _ ,” Sloan posed.

“No, no, no. I’m not playing your game. I’m not letting you back me into a corner - force feed me whatever this prescription is until I give up and beg to join your cause, making you out to be the hero all along, oh no. I have patients who need me.  _ Nothing  _ will make me give up on them. Computer, end transmission.”

After standing with his forehead pressed to the cool tile wall for several minutes, he stumbled out of the shower compartment, sizzling hot with an unpleasant combination of anger, the pounding reverberations of the sonics, and razor-burn. 

For a moment, he considered ripping the wiring out of his computer terminal, or smashing pieces of it, or just plucking out a few choice components and losing them to time and the perpetually shifting contents of his nightstand drawer. It took him extra time to decide what to wear, on account of the tingling in his chest. He found it was best ignored beneath a loose fitting sweater, one he did not often wear, in a muted emerald tone. He hoped Dax wouldn’t mind him foregoing a uniform, even though he was technically on duty for her appointment. 

***

She did not mind his choice of clothing, but he felt too clumsy to be of any use. They concluded the physical therapy session with a set of handheld puzzles - ranging from delightfully smooth wooden mazes to much louder metallic spinners and switches. There was no real need to speak at this time, so he was content to sit beside her and stroke his fingers over the etched grooves on one of the wooden pieces. There was a blue-painted bead installed within the network, on a supple cable, designed for the user to manipulate until the metaphorical drop of water was moved through the system of reclamation pipes. It was a peaceful way to pass the time, sitting with a friend, playing their own respective puzzles. 

Eventually, Dax finished working through three different dexterity exercises, and peered at Bashir for a suggestion on what to do next. 

“Is that all for this week?” she asked, “or should I do that one with the buttons again?”

“Oh,” he stopped with his finger still curled gently around the blue bead, “No, I think that’s probably plenty. Are you feeling more… stable, with all this?”

Dax nodded. 

“Yeah. And I should ask the same about you - have you noticed any side effects?”

“Hmm, it’s hard to describe,” he said, copying her nod to help make himself clear. “I feel as though I’m… buzzing? Like I can  _ feel  _ myself thinking and making a decision, I can watch it happen. And then I’m always at the frequency of the sound in the air here, can you hear it? I feel like I’m… vibrating all the time, like I’m a chord inside a piano and someone keeps pressing the key. I can feel it on my face, and between my ears.”

“Okay,” Dax kept her composure, “and does that feel good, or bad?”

He didn’t want to bring up the hormones; it was a topic lost on many Trill. So Bashir consulted his puzzle for inspiration, but the single beaded waterdrop did not have anything new to say; it had its predestined course and could not go further unless it was broken. Still, it was a good deal more relaxing than ruminating on chess. He slid the bead back and forth quickly between two fingers, like keeping a pulse, and the act soothed him enough to reply. 

“It can be both,” he said. “So… maybe neither? Like I said, it’s hard to describe. Some things I know are  _ supposed  _ to make me upset, but I don’t really… feel anything, I just say what I think the situation calls for. And other things - small things - make me feel either petty and annoyed, or giddy, and I’d be hard pressed to explain  _ why _ . But it isn’t altogether unpleasant, no.”

“Gotcha. Are you sleeping enough? Eating, drinking?”

“I think so. I’m trying to.”

“Good. Are they still calling you?”

“No, not anymore,” he said, hoping this would prove itself true. 

Careful not to interfere with his hand on the woodblock-maze, she reached out to rub his wrist, instead.

“Remember, you can stop any time,” she reassured him. 

“They’ll know if I stop.”

“So will  _ I _ ,” she insisted, with a touch of her symbiont’s trademark wit, and warmth. “And I mean that in a good way. You’re not yourself, right now.”

“I am exactly who I would’ve become, though, aren’t I? I can’t say I’ve ever felt  _ human  _ before, not really.”

Dax had to make two attempts to meet his gaze, keeping him from moving by placing both of her hands on his wrists. It was not done to administer correction, but to keep that buzzing sensation contained; she could tell he was aching for guidance in the form of pressure. 

“And I don’t know a lot of humans who can feel themselves  _ vibrating _ all the time,” she said. “If this is what you want, we’re going to find ways for you to manage your anxiety, and ways for you to express yourself with more confidence. You had adjusted  _ really well,  _ before this, and I hate to see you lose that progress. It isn’t anything  _ wrong _ \- it never has been - but it’s going to feel  _ different _ , and we need to accommodate that. It’s a spectrum, you know.”

“I know,” Bashir said, wondering if he was supposed to sound affronted. 

“And I think you’re in for another wave of adjustment anxiety,” Dax went on. “I’m not saying that to scare you, because we’re gonna be ready for it, this time. I’m gonna put in an order with Garak for a heavier blanket to help you sleep, we’re gonna look through your replicator recipes and make sure they’re all nutritionally balanced even if you can only handle eating cake all day - and who doesn’t want that? - and I’ll make sure you have a transcription PADD for work in case you don’t feel like using your voice.”

“Why wouldn’t I…?”

“I know about the hormones,” she said, keeping her voice both firm and friendly - _nurturing_ _-_ with all the wisdom and love of her lifetimes weighing down on her. “You could have any number of reasons… they might be kind of a blur, and that’s okay. If you think this is the best way to keep yourself, your friends, and your patients safe, I’m with you every step of the way.”


	3. Chapter 3

The textures of his clothing, bedding, and preferred foods quickly became a subject of hypersensitivity, once more. He narrowed his replicator dinner programs from a neat one-hundred down to only twelve he could bear to eat in a reasonable amount of time, without feeling he was forcing himself. He started fearing his lunches with Garak, and even outright declined an invitation to dinner at Captain Sisko’s quarters, opting to eat small bites of soggy basbousa in solitude, instead, because it was all he could tolerate. Dax had practically concluded her prophecy with a promise that it was acceptable for him to have cake every meal, especially if he smothered it in dried fruits and protein-rich yogurt, perfected by the replicator. 

His sleep patterns changed, too. The initial dull of the sedatives was overrun by his metabolism in no time, as it adjusted to the daily intake of the drugs. It became a nuisance more than a pleasant outcome, and he found it harder than ever to sleep. His mind went on spinning through fears and his body felt numb instead of tired. Some nights, it felt like his skin was tingling more than the static cling from his blankets, and sleep became impossible. 

So, he would go and stand in front of the viewport in his room, Kukulaka cradled in his arms, and he would stare out for hours. He  _ wanted  _ to wonder if this was the life his parents saved him from, if there was anything here that merited  _ saving _ in the first place… but his mind was empty of everything except fear and discomfort. It felt, sometimes, like he was observing himself as a third-party, due to the particular blend of mood altering substances. Things blurred past him and he felt as though he was crawling along behind, picking up scraps. For the first time, a memory from his time at school superimposed itself with complete, alarming clarity, allowing him to see himself sitting curled up on the floor over a coloring book, while his peers took turns trying to  _ help _ him, coming to tempt him with their handheld computers. It did not feel nearly as tragic as he expected; the other children only stopped spending their time with him when the instructor directed them back to completing their own assignments. In the memory, Bashir could not piece out what the instructor was saying to him, but he felt no hostility when she stooped down beside him and pointed out which color crayons he was using. She waited until he was done with his picture before asking if she could slide it into the display-glass on the classroom wall, with his permission and the resulting wonderment of his classmates. 

Suddenly, his teacher’s voice became clear, too. It was soft, woven from raw fibers, spun with the delight of teaching children. The class was composed of all different species, similar only in age, and Bashir thought the teacher may have been Betazoid, but he was not certain. The memory was fundamentally new to him, one his parents had never experienced and still chose to strip away from him before it had the chance to bloom and be of benefit.

“You’re a natural artist,” his teacher said. “Look, class - tell me what you see in the picture Jules drew. Isn’t it so beautiful?”

It occurred to him - as he felt a sudden weight closing over his shoulders - that this may have been a restless dream. He had fallen asleep kneeling on the ground with his forehead braced against the cold glass of the viewport, Kukalaka acting as a cushion for his wrist, curved tightly over itself and pressed against the sharp metal frame. Startled, he opened his eyes and reached to touch whatever had been placed on him, to best understand it. The room all around him was dark and peaceful, but his fingers slid over a silky blanket, clutching around the plush faux feathers and weighted beads inside. He went on smoothing it until the weight was distributed in a way he liked, meeting the sorest muscles on his back and arms. 

And then, his eyes were drawn to a flickering light across his bedroom, situated near his armchair. He slid forward - the distance of a few of his normal strides, all while kneeling and remaining cozied up in his blanket - to see what was going on. 

Gradually, Garak’s face came into focus, delicate ridges casting a shadow over his eyes. He was wearing a head-lamp on a band across the crest of his hairline, with the beam directed down on a sewing project he had contained to his lap, with the seam in need of mending draped over his folded knee. 

“Good afternoon, my dear,” Garak said plainly. “I had to deliver the blanket Counselor Dax ordered. She said it was urgent, and who am I to argue with a doctor?”

Bashir assumed he was still dreaming, and rubbed urgently at his temples. He could feel his pulse throbbing there, and it occurred to him he had neglected not only a normal sleep schedule, but a good glass of water. 

As if somehow attuned to this line of thought, Garak offered one, cold condensation dribbling down the sides of the glass. He leaned forward until Bashir could reach him easily, and then he sat back down in the armchair. 

“Afternoon?” Bashir gurgled, spilling some of the water down his chin, in his haste. “I remember getting up from bed at about one in the morning, because I couldn’t sleep.”

“Ah, well, forgive me. The local time on Cardassia is several hours ahead, and then one must factor in the shuttle rides, wherein time readouts are meaningless. I wanted to make sure I did not miss our lunch appointment.”

“Computer, is it still morning?” Bashir asked, hung up on this red herring. 

“Station time is 1106, Standard.”

“See,” Bashir said, pointing upward in indication of the all-knowing voice. “And I think I work tonight…”

“Doctor, forgive me for overstepping, but I would recommend you have a good meal and a hot bath before  _ that  _ happens, or I will be calling the Infirmary on your behalf to request a personal day.”

“Mm, no, I have two surgeries today,” Bashir said matter-of-factly. “My PA can’t do them. Wait… how did you get in here?”

_ That  _ was the base of the mystery! And he had found it while still bundled up in his lovely blanket. Meanwhile, Garak looked up from his stitching, and snipped the unused end of the thread between gritted teeth. 

“I suppose ‘concern for a friend’ is not a  _ fully  _ satisfactory answer, is it, Doctor? But it is the truth.”

“Uh huh.”

He climbed up into bed, laying on his shoulder so he could continue to watch Garak lounging in the chair at the side of the room. With some effort, he was able to spread the blanket to cover himself almost completely; between them, Dax and Garak had taken great care in ensuring the measurements were perfect.

“Would you like something to eat?” Garak offered, bending to pat his messenger bag, which he had stowed beneath the ottoman.

“I don’t think so, no. I don’t really want to have a conversation, either, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Not at all. I merely wanted to make sure you were looking after yourself, Doctor. And dispense some advice, if I may.”

Bashir nodded for him to go ahead, even though he had no plans to open his eyes back up. He preferred the impression his mind made of Garak; it was much easier, then, to supplant him in front of a roaring fireplace in a cozy little house on a remote, colonized world, to pretend it was some holiday and they had no need to do anything but spend the day basking in each other’s company. Oh, he had no misgivings about his profession nor the patients he was due to see that very evening, but it was nice to feel… cared about, in the tiniest and most backwards of ways. From the medicated fog and general arrangement of his brain, it did not seem tiny or backwards, anyway - it seemed significant. In fact, the newly mutual sense of  _ care  _ occupied the majority of his consciousness.

And he found there were small things that brought him immeasurable joy, in contrast to the small things that irritated him. He liked to take an extra few steps in place before settling so he could hear the clack of his boots on the grated floors, he liked to move his fingers and then clap them over a smile for just a moment, he liked to blink more often and feel the rustle of his lashes against one another. He liked to listen to the world around him, to hear when it was hurting, and when it wanted to rejoice with him. At that moment, his world was Garak. 

“I wished to tell you,” Garak began anew, clearing his throat, “about the underbellies of organizations like the one you’ve become involved with, and the one I hail from, myself. They are the stuff of legends - or your fantasy stories - built up to be impenetrable, intimidating, one way in, one way out. An agent pledges a lifetime of allegiance, and plans at any moment to die for their cause. But this only perpetuates the rot. Ah, Doctor, if one knows where to look - as indeed I do - one can find a vulnerability, slit those soft belly scales, and put an end to the whole affair.”

“Soft belly scales, hmm?” Bashir mumbled, stroking his heavy blanket and pretending it was the area in question. 

“Precisely,” said Garak. “That is an endeavor I would be willing to pursue for you, Doctor. In my time living here, on this station, I have found… unlikely alliances. You would do the same not only for me, but for anyone.”

“The only bellies I cut are in surgery,” Bashir faltered, half-asleep. 

“Yes, this evening, so I heard,” Garak said cordially, as he stood and gathered his things. “I’ll set an alarm for you. But I will not wish you luck, because you don’t need any.”

“Mm, good _ night, _ then” Bashir concluded. 

As promised, Garak left an alarm on the computer, leaving Bashir with more than enough time to prepare for his shift in the Infirmary. 

It did take him some extra time to sort through the rotation of nearly identical uniforms in his wardrobe. At a glance, he could tell which was most recently replicated, which he had worn for a particularly messy workday, which he had sent off to Garak to have mended after a number of fateful away missions. The invisible thread caught his eye in the light, and he found himself surreptitiously counting the times Garak had woven it, around and around, to close the gap. He reached to play with the zipper, but did not find the sound agreeable, so he shoved the hangers over, revealing an empty space. From there, he saw the surgical scrubs at the back of the lineup, and he was grateful for the distraction. These were exactly what he needed.

They were nice and tight, containing the buzzing sensation he felt all across his skin, fastening at his wrists, ankles, waist, back, and over his head. In contrast, he thought he might want to wear a lab coat, for the sensation of something loose and gliding behind him, brushing against the backs of his knees like a friendly household pet. He had a ribbed gray coat designed to match the station’s uniforms, and it did not fare badly against the maroon scrubs, either. Finally, he took the transcription PADD Dax had set aside for him, as it occurred to him that even  _ Garak  _ had not made him feel greatly conversational. It was a wise precaution and a simple enough adjustment for his staff in the operating suite to make. 

It was a standard procedure, a well practiced habit, and he and his staff relied on their complementary areas of expertise. Most of the ordeal did not require any speaking at all, but it made Bashir overly aware of how much of the script the other performers knew, and how much input they expected from him. 

He wanted to use his PADD - Ezri had set it up to read any input he typed, whether from a Standard keyboard of letters, or of common preset responses, or phrases he particularly liked. It was a thin enough device for him to set on his table during the operation, no hardship for him to reach out and tap a few times before cleaning his hands and returning to work, if he had to give direction. But then it occurred to him - what was the point? 

For some reason, the notion overwhelmed him with embarrassment - that his anaesthesiologist could simply look at him and then adjust the dosage, that his attending nurses could make the incision and close it again without even looking at him, that even the visiting radiologist could present him with a scan without asking or explaining. As a patient, he would not care for this behavior at all. It was swift and professional, sure, but it lacked tangible compassion. And since their patient was unconscious on the table and having her inflamed appendix removed, Bashir decided he should play both roles. He would not rely on the PADD or the nonverbal cues of his team, he would explain everything. 

“Yes, I thought removal would be prudent, even if the inflammation could have been controlled in other ways. It often recurs. And anyway, the appendix is a redundant organ in the Bajoran digestive system. If it turns out to be necessary later, Bajoran cell donors are readily available with no genetic exclusion. Our organ replicators can generate a new, healthy appendix in less than eighteen minutes.”

Nurse Jabara, who knew him better than the other attending staff, gave him a faint smile. 

“I’ve kind of missed your narration, Doctor,” she appraised. 

“It helps me focus,” he said, still feeling bashful, but able to hide his expression behind his scrubs, pulled taut over his chin and nose. “I, um, finally got a good night of sleep.”

“I knew something was wrong, before,” she said. “We’ve  _ all  _ missed you.”

“Mm, thank you. Let’s prepare to close then, shall we?”

He felt himself melting into the warm words long after they were said, followed by a sudden burst of warm fluid from the organ he had been carefully freeing from the network of fibrous tissue inside. He nearly dropped it back into the open cavity, shocked at himself. 

“Doctor?” Jabara’s voice was more forceful, now, raising from the comforting embers of a campfire to consume a forest; Bajorans always sounded like fire to him. 

Bashir steadied his hands around the scalpel and the appendix, respectively, and stared into the wound, refusing to withdraw his attention from his work.

“C-can…” he mumbled and had to restart, “Can anyone take over from here?”

“Doctor,” Jabara repeated, cooling her tone somewhat, “it happens. I shouldn’t have distracted you. But you didn’t hurt anyone, it’s already been removed. She can’t feel anything. Think of it as… donated for research.”

He was not sure if this was meant to be humorous. 

“Then in that case I’ve just wasted it, cutting right through the middle like that.”

“Well, it’s not as though you were working on a paper about enzyme secretions in the edematous Bajoran appendix, were you?”

“I can’t finish this,” Bashir insisted, still holding steady but wanting nothing more than to dash out of the suite and hide. “I feel sick. Call Zh’qer, I’ll trade them shifts.”

“Doctor,” Jabara said, dismissing his request for his Assistant. “ _ It’s all right _ . Everyone makes mistakes, and this one didn’t hurt anybody, all you--”

“All I did was make a mistake. Don’t you see?!”

“You don’t need Zh—“ she insisted, but he cut her off. 

He addressed his comm badge, now intent on ignoring anything kind or reparative. 

“Doctor Bashir to Lieutenant Zh’qer - you’re needed in surgery, stat.”

As soon as the Andorian arrived to relieve him, he stepped back from the table, grateful to dispose of the nicked appendix in a sterile basin. 

“They can do sutures, and a good deal better than I can, today,” Bashir said, to Jabara’s out-of-line refusal. “We’re done, it’s out, close it.”

***

Initially, Bashir wanted to retire to his quarters. But habit won out on his walk, and guided his steps toward Quark’s. He spent many an evening there after a long shift in the Infirmary, to the point Quark usually had his standard synthale - or a more exciting cocktail to upsell - ready at his table by the time he arrived. 

“What would you say the most glamorous metropolitan area on Cardassia is, Doctor?” Quark preened, setting down a glass of mixed whiskey with a cherry impaled through a stir stick at the top. It may as well have been the burst, oozing appendix, for all the disgust Bashir felt when he looked at it. 

“They’re being violently occupied by the Dominion,” Bashir said flatly. 

“Yeah, yeah, and they can drown their sorrows in a damn good whiskey. I need a name for it, tell me what you think. On Earth, that would be a ‘Manhattan,’ but it needs a little… Cardassian flair. What do you think of  _ Coranum _ ?”

“I can’t have any alcohol right now, and I’d prefer to be left alone.”

Bashir bridged his fingers and leaned into them, looking disinterested until Quark gave up and left with a huff.

“Fine,  _ fine _ ,” Quark said, sliding the glass off of his tray and onto Bashir’s placemat, regardless. “I’ll leave you to it, Doctor.”

Quark did eventually leave Bashir alone to roll his eyes,  _ think _ , and inquisitively pick up the glass of bitter, blended kanar. 

He felt  _ miserable _ . Wide awake and trembling, replaying the mistake over and over in his head with perfect clarity, passing the same judgement each time: he was  _ not supposed  _ to make mistakes. Failings had been written out of him. Never mind that someone was there to console him at every step - Dax, Garak, even Nurse Jabara and Quark, to some degree… he did not want to be accommodated if it meant he would continue to make mistakes in caring for his patients. It was not acceptable to him. 

So, he took the glass up in both hands, stirred the syrupy, blueish cocktail around with the cherry-stick, and then drank the whole thing quickly. Regardless, it settled slowly, clinging to his throat and tingling and burning his stomach. On a different day, he would have enjoyed the sensation very much, but today he did not feel much of anything. He had lost his confidence in every part of himself, except one: 

Was it so different from accommodating his patients, he wondered, to expect small steps be taken for himself? Rationally, he knew the drugs had only torn his well-acclimated brain off the routine course of established coping habits, and dropped it into an ocean of maladjusted abandonment. It had taken him time to learn his way around the station, to find comfort and protection, and friendship. Was that  _ all  _ his parents’ interfering had done - made him too headstrong for humility, and too overconfident to accept kind words from a friend? They had made him this way -  _ solitary  _ \- but he had always tried to cultivate friendship. It just took time to move past feeling the need to  _ help _ and to  _ fix _ , in exchange for the basic decency of being  _ liked _ ; it took time to recognize this could be mutually rewarding, as relationships should be. 

He felt a heavy clap on his shoulder, and turned around to see it had come from Chief O’Brien, standing there with a musing expression on his face. 

“Hey,” he said. “You alright?”

“Alright,” Bashir returned, again relying on habit. 

He stabbed at the cherry until it was a pulpy mess in the bottom of his empty glass, then he shoved it aside as if this was sufficient invitation for O’Brien to join him at the little table. It was. 

“Are we still on for the holosuite later?” O’Brien pressed. “I wasn’t sure what time you’d get out of surgery, but I booked it anyway, and…”

Bashir stayed quiet, but flashed him a questioning glance. 

“And,” O’Brien continued, “you look like you could use some cheering up. I think you’ll like this one, too. I loaned it from a couple old friends on  _ The Enterprise _ , it’s preloaded with costume choices and everything.”

“Sure, that sounds fine.”

“Are you all finished here?”

Bashir tipped his head, not committing to a dismissive shake nor an affirmative nod, while O’Brien shoved the empty glass onto another table altogether. When Bashir stood, O’Brien was quick to pat both his shoulders, with the same overbearing and simultaneously stunted affection as before. 

“You go ahead and get changed first,” he said, leading the way to the holosuite he had reserved. “I think I know exactly who you’ll want to be… if you’re sure you feel up to it?”

“I’m sure,” Bashir said, unconvincingly. “It’s just that I’ve been taking a new medication, I’m sorry if it makes me more irritable.”

“Oh, fair enough. I think it’s making you less irritat _ ing _ , if that’s any consolation. I don’t think I’ve seen you hovering around in Ops for a  _ week _ , barging in with whatever excuse you can come up with just to hang around Dax’s station. I’ve  _ missed that _ .”

They reached the holosuite, and O’Brien took over the responsibility of loading the program, including the historically appropriate wardrobe for Bashir to sift through. Bashir felt unsettled by the alcohol, and took a much longer time than usual in choosing his character. Many of the costumes featured heavy houndstooth and tweed, and he found it relaxing to tug at the tiny loops of scratchy thread, while also assuming he would not like to wear the whole thing over his skin. He thought about leaving his scrubs on underneath and simply swapping coats, his lab one for another just as long and dreary-colored, with hooks and shiny buttons running down the chest. But O’Brien was putting in so much effort to lift his spirits - he usually  _ loved  _ a good costume to complete the story, whether replicated or ordered from Garak in advance - that he did not want to be a disappointment. 

He plucked a full suit off the rack and went into the side compartment to change, leaving O’Brien to load the rest of the program. The dressing compartment was not fully enclosed - just a sliding partition with an open space above and below it - which left Bashir largely aware of what was going on, except for the alarming gap in his vision, brought about by the partition itself. Without seeing the full picture, he was aware only of flashing light overhead and cladding vibration along the floor as the program booted up. A holographic crowd bustled and shouted, and then he heard simulated gunshots. 

He had only succeeded in undoing the chinstrap on his scrubs, and was standing with the bulk of the fabric still obscuring his vision as he tried to peel the tight fabric off over his head. But it was enough to make him feel blind, and bound, and submerged into unfamiliar, scary surroundings. Then, one of the computerized people in the crowd screamed, having been shot by an antiquated bullet, and Bashir became aware of his heart and lungs working way ahead of their usual pace. He gasped as he finally tugged the hood free, leaving behind tingling deposits of static in his hair, tousling it and sending the sparks to touch his temples. He hated it. 

He was about to cry over the loss of a holographic lifeform he had never even met before, one whose demise was likely central to the plot, and his head and chest were throbbing, and he still hadn’t gotten into his costume. 

“Is there a doctor?” a holographic gentleman called out, stooping over the body. 

Bashir could see him under the gap in the changing room door. He had slid down with his back against the wall and his head in his hands, as if this would help keep any of the overwhelming stimulation contained to his thoughts where it belonged. It did not belong against his forehead or fingertips or lungs, but there was nowhere else for it to go, overflowing from his assaulted senses and manifesting itself everywhere else. The simulation was too loud, too bright, too  _ tragic _ , and he could not explain any of the sensations it brought out of him. He covered his eyes and shut them, and then dug the pads of his thumbs into his temples, rubbing vainly in circles, unable to soothe himself. 

“Computer, stop program,” he heard O’Brien call out. 

With this courtesy exercised, O’Brien came to crouch outside of the changing stall, peering under the door to assess the situation. 

“Julian?”

Bashir did not know what to say, which was enough, on its own, to leave O’Brien stunned.

“I think I’d better find Ezri,” he said. “Stay right there, everything’s fine, I shut it off.”

Indeed, when Bashir managed to open one eye and look out through his fingers, only the changing room remained. The rest of his surroundings had all been digitized, and subsequently reduced to a grid of black and glowing yellow with O’Brien’s command. It was slightly better that way - Bashir could see the beginning and the end, the cycle of it all, and all he could hear was the residual hum of the power generator installed just outside the entrance arch. 

Was this how life would be, Bashir wondered,  _ overwhelming _ at every turn? A holosuite fantasy making him shake like a startled child? A routine surgery crumbling his resolve so he could not make another attempt, even though his patient required him to?

The tears had already begun by the time Garak arrived. 

He leaned against the door, even though the lock was cheap enough for him to pick through with only his claw-like fingernails. No, there was no reason for him to invade the space Bashir had control over; it may have been  _ all  _ he felt he had control over, in that moment. So he leaned against the cloudy plexiglass and offered a steady voice, instead.

“Doctor,” he said, “this is not what you think it is. This is  _ not  _ a display of weakness. You hold yourself to such high standards, and now find them beyond your natural grasp.”

“None of this is natural,” Bashir sobbed, almost beyond comprehension. But the words did not matter as much to Garak as the tone did; for Bashir, it would have been the opposite. 

“It doesn’t matter where your talents stem from,” Garak continued, “it matters what you choose to do with them. I have learned that recently, myself.”

Bashir sniffled. He was not set on arguing, but he did not know wat to say. 

“It was important for me to make you aware of that,” Garak said. 

“I can hear your heartbeat,” Bashir decided to reply. In the structure of their conversation, it was a redundant beam, but to him, it felt vital. It could have been the hearth of the home, the core of his world. “ _ It’s a little fast _ .”

“Is it? Hmm, well. I’m not in the best of shape, and I did just run here from my quarters.”

“Can I feel,” Bashir said, somehow brimming with compassion and yet devoid of any tonal clues. “Just your wrist, if you don’t mind.”

Garak knelt down, and offered his arm under the threshold. Immediately, Bashir gave his wrist a steady grip, and rolled up the brightly patterned, heavy fabric of Garak’s sleeve. He pressed the pad of his thumb into the scaly flesh, feeling out Garak’s pulse. It was steady, but elevated, just as he expected. In the past, Garak would have simply left the silence for Bashir to fill, but Bashir did not suffer that compulsion anymore, so Garak took on the responsibility of soothing him. 

“Perhaps I  _ was _ on edge, come to think of it,” said Garak. “I was drafting a communique when Quark interrupted. He said you were in trouble, and I knew I had to come right away.”

“You want to help me…”

Bashir consoled himself by pressing a slower pattern into Garak’s skin. The steadiness was reassuring, and so was the passion behind the reaction on Garak’s part in the first place. It was nice, Bashir thought, to be able to read that out in a numerical value; it was easy for him to equate  _ concern  _ and even love to a rapid pulse.

“So you…” Bashir continued, voice shaking, “you sent a message to Sloan, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t catch his name,” Garak said, knowingly. “But I told him chess is a  _ childish  _ game, and that if he wants to give kotra a try, he knows where to find me. Kotra does not have kings or queens, nor pawns to exploit. I’ve always considered your mind like a castle, Doctor. A fortress, capable of impressive lateral movement, swift and unyielding—“ 

As he prepared to elaborate - only by adding more words, and not any degree of clarity - Dax came dashing in to the rescue. 

“Oh, Garak, I’m glad you’re here,” she said, assessing the situation. 

Indeed, Garak was still folded up on the floor next to the changing room door, with his hand gently breaking the barrier. She joined him there on the tile, peering in to meet Bashir’s eyes, offering her own arms inside. A compact medkit dangled from one, and Bashir found it easy to read the concern in her eyes and posture. 

“Do you need help calming down?” she asked. “I want to help you. Is that okay?”

Bashir pried his hands away from his face, scratched red and wet with tears, and managed a shaky nod. 

Although he did not have a diagnosis for claustrophobia, and in fact enjoyed pressure as a grounding sensation, Dax would not administer it when so much built up stress had to make its way out of him. She would let him move and fidget as much as he felt the need to, as long as he was not in danger of hurting himself. 

“This is to help control your anxiety,” she said, slipping a hypospray from her kit and offering it to him. “You can administer it yourself if you want to, or I can do it for you…”

“It’s the…” he mumbled, taking it and trying to decide where to release it, “the scrubs… I liked them but then I couldn’t get them off. There were people all around, someone got shot, and I couldn’t help them, because I couldn’t get these things off of me.”

“Is it okay if I help you with that?”

Bashir nodded, after running an inventory of his modesty.

“Yeah… I have thermals on underneath, from my pajamas, because they’re just silk…”

“Okay. We can use the hypospray through those, that’s fine.”

Dax explained each small action she took, as she helped him with the zipper, rolled down one of his thermal sleeves from the tight neckline, and found a little patch of skin over which to administer the medication. Then, with a steady left hand, she buttoned the thermals up again and helped him shed the confining scrubs, before sliding back to the doorway, making sure he did not feel crowded. 

“Your breathing is still a little fast,” she said, keeping her voice kind and approachable. If it could manifest itself physically, it would certainly be a fuzzy teddy bear, and Bashir would be giving it a handshake and telling it  _ hello _ . “Listen for mine, and try to breathe with me.”

“I may find that of benefit as well, Counselor,” Garak said, tipping his head to indicate the grip Bashir retained on his wrist. “I believe Doctor Bashir was trying to do the very same on  _ me _ , before you arrived.”

“That’s our Julian; he’s always helping,” Dax said kindly. 

Garak saw no harm in playing along, and even though he had trained for years to make his most labored breathing silent, Bashir got the impression of the whole room arching its back, inflating and relaxing again in unison, wringing out tension. He could hear Dax well enough when he focused; it was nice to have something pleasant to set his attention on. It made all of the vibrations running through his skin more palatable when they were framed as  _ focus _ , and not a severe lack thereof. He could add intention to anything, like that, couldn’t he? He could accept which of his traits needed accommodation and tend to each one, like a ward full of patients with different histories and prognoses.

“I… won’t be taking the medications anymore,” Bashir said softly. “It doesn’t, er,  _ help _ .”

Dax nodded in support of this. 

“Yes,” Garak said, after pausing politely. “I made that  _ quite  _ clear in my message.”

Dax turned to look at him, only for a moment, to understand what he had done. 

“Good,” she said. “And I talked to Starfleet Medical, too. I’m sorry, Julian, but I had to.”

“No, it’s okay,” Bashir replied, happily picking up the phrase from Dax’s repetition. “I would’ve done the same for one of my patients.”

“For a  _ friend _ ,” Dax insisted, taking his unoccupied hand to squeeze tight in her own. 

“For  _ anyone _ ,” Garak added, copying the motion with his fingers tensing around Bashir’s forearm, in a Cardassian gesture of devotion. 

Bashir did not know what to say. So, in silence, he allowed his dear friends to help him to his feet, letting him lean his weight on them with each alternating step. He signed himself into one of the recovery suites adjacent to Dax’s office, so he could be observed and expertly cared for as his mind and body readjusted to their preferred baseline. 

Once Bashir was safe in his room, resting on the oversized bed, his senses were pulled from slumber by a soft exchange of words, just beyond the door.

Garak’s fingernails clicked against a PADD screen; he was signing a waiver of his own, with quiet guidance coming from Dax. 

“All of this is strictly confidential,” she was saying. “The only people you’ll see for the next two weeks are myself, and Julian.”

“Good. I feel I must… be there for him, if he experiences any unpleasant symptoms during his withdrawal.”

“I know,” Dax said, reaching to rub his shoulder. “Here, let’s all get ourselves nice and comfortable…”

The door slid open slowly, silently, to admit them. Bashir pretended to be asleep while they situated themselves on foldaway sofas, tiptoeing around to exchange pillows and blankets from the cabinets in the walls. But once the sounds stopped, and he was sure they were there to look after him, he was able to find true, restful sleep. 


End file.
